Doctor Holmes
by YourLoyalBlogger
Summary: Based on this kink meme prompt: John is injured or ill. Sherlock makes it his mission to care for him. John didn't expect him to care and is a bit freaked out. He's also a terrible patient and Sherlock isn't half bad at taking care of John.
1. Chapter 1

No I haven't stopped with And The Stars Shone Brightly, just filling some prompts. Based on this one:

J_ohn is injured or ill. Sherlock makes it his mission to care for him._

_ Can contain any of these ideas:_

_- John has terrible fashback-y fever dreams, Sherlock talks to him to sooth him_

_- John's the worst patient, because he's a doctor and knows everything better_

_- John didn't expect him to care and is a bit freaked out. He tries to figure out if Sherlock has ulterior motives._

_- Sherlock gets all single minded and intense about caring for John_

_- Sherlock does weird but adorable things that mummy or Mycroft used to do when he was ill as a kid (like singing a special get-well-song to him or brewing some obscure family remedy, IDK)_

_ Definitely humour, but no crack please. Sherlock is weird and a bit overbearing about caring for John, but not actually bad at it. I want angst and heaps of understated fluff. Gen, pre-slash or slash are all good._

Can be found on the filling fest page on Sherlock BBC Fic on Live-journal.

ENJOY! And sorry for shortness but thats how my kink fills roll. Also I don't own Sherlock in anyway.

* * *

It was all Sherlock's fault really. If he hadn't dragged John out to a crime-scene, in the coldest weather imaginable, AND in the pouring rain, this might never have happened. But it had. John Watson, M.D had the flu. He had woken up that very morning with the symptoms and by the afternoon he felt, well, like shit. He supposed he should be grateful that Sherlock was nowhere in sight. The soldier part of John disliked being seen in such a vulnerable state.

John dragged himself up and wobbled down the short staircase and into the kitchen. He felt light-headed and could tell a fever was starting it's burn. He filled a glass and stumbled back to his room, spilling drops of water that pooled onto the carpet like little blobs of liquid crystal. John paused at his bedroom door before closing it and placing the glass on his bedside table, collapsing onto his bed.

John started to shiver and pulled the bed covers over his body and curled into a ball. He could feel beads of sweat begin to form on his brow and knew it wouldn't be long before he started to get warm and then hot. He could get up again and fetch his medical supplies, but his body strongly disagreed with that suggestion.

He almost wished his annoying flatmate was here after all.

* * *

Sherlock returned home late that afternoon after a long and tedious case. Since John had felt the need to constantly complain the night before, Sherlock hadn't bothered to ask him. Better to let him calm down and then drag him to another crime scene. As the detective ventured into the living room of 221b Baker Street, his flatmate was oddly absent. Usually John was in his armchair, sipping a cup of tea or on his laptop typing up a slowly, but well written storm.

But he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he's on a date? No, here was his jacket. And he wasn't in the kitchen either. Sherlock considered calling out but would rather his flatmate not hear the slight concern in his voice. Sherlock had many enemies and he was sure John would let him know if he was going out.

Having no real sense of privacy and personal space, unless it had to do with himself, Sherlock wasted no time in tip-toing up the short staircase leading up to John's bedroom and gently pushing the door open. John lay on his bed, the sheets tangled around his shivering body. He seemed to be also sweating a great deal. That along with his pale skin and flushed cheeks pointed to only one thing.

John was sick. And it was probably Sherlock's fault.


	2. Chapter 2

How does one approach a sick flatmate? Mused the detective. John could possibly take offence if he tried to wake him and swing a punch. On the other hand, he looked like shit. It couldn't be doing him much good, curling into a shivering ball and sweating all over his sheets. Oh God! What if he'd been poisoned? What if he was lying there on his bed, dying? No, no, that was ridiculous. But plausible. Fine, Sherlock decided. He'd wake up the doctor.

"John?"

"John? Can you hear me? Are you awake John?" _Don't make me shake you. Or poke you._

"I bloody wish I wasn't."

"John! Are..are you alright? You look ill."

"No I'm just lying here in a pool of my own sweat because it sounded like such a good idea!"_ Ok, you're in a bad mood. Understandable. Please lower your sarcasm levels John._

"Do you need anything?" _See? I am making an effort._

Wait, did he just hear correctly or did Sherlock Holmes just offer to help him? Maybe he was hallucinating. Yeah that was probably it.

"John?"

"I need you to piss off. I can deal with this myself."_ I'm a bloody doctor, I can do this._

"Somehow I doubt that. Wait here, I will bring you something for your throat. It sounds hoarse."

How had John missed that? It was his bloody throat. And Sherlock was right, as always, it was starting to become sore. But he felt hesitant in drinking anything Sherlock brewed, it probably wasn't safe. Especially when you find a severed finger next to the tea or an ear in the fridge sitting on the butter.  
In fact most of their kitchen could be declared as health hazard and yet Sherlock never got so much as a sniffle, the bastard.

* * *

Said bastard returned several minutes later with a warm mug of something. It smelt nice. It smelt safe. John attempted to sit up, failing miserably as his head began to spin. Strong, thin arms lifted him into a better position and held his head up and let him sip the contents of the mug. It tasted like honey and lemon and soothed his throat. Who'd have thought Sherlock knew such remedies?

Sherlock rested John's head back on the pillows and placed the mug next to the full glass of water. John gave him a confused look and Sherlock found himself raising his eyebrows in response.

"What?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Isn't that what people do? Take care of sick flatmates?"

"You can't use that excuse for everything." John rasped, a yawning taking hold of his words.

"I can and will. Besides, I suppose it is partly my...um..my..."

"Your what? Cat got your tongue?"

"What? No. Alright, it's my fault? Ok? Happy now?" _I feel guilty. Me. Sherlock Holmes. What have you done to me?_

"Ecstatic. Now piss off."

Sherlock felt himself pouting. That was very rude. After all, he had tried his best to look after John and now he was pushing Sherlock away. Maybe he thought he could take better care of himself? Doctors were always rumoured to be the worst of patients and it seemed like John was proving the rumour to be true.

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"No. I'm not moving. You obviously think you can take care of yourself, but look at you? You couldn't even sit up without my help and no doubt your fever will take hold of you mind and render you unable to do the most menial of tasks. No I will stay here."

"Suit yourself. Just don't do anything or say anything." John kicked the covers off his bed again.

"You're in fine insulting form this afternoon."

"Didn't I just tell you to be quiet? Course I'm in a bad mood. I'm bloody sick!" _And whose fault was that?_

Sherlock simply gave him a confused but curious look. John turned away and closed his eyes. Inhaling suddenly when he felt a cold, wet cloth plop onto his forehead. Oh that felt nice. Really great. Ok, Sherlock was actually trying to do the right thing and he wasn't half bad at it. That doesn't mean John was going to be nice to him when it was his fault in the first place.

If Sherlock wanted forgiveness, he was going to have to work for it.


End file.
